Just then, alarms throughout the theater started to blare, and up above the fire, sprinklers began to impotently spin, spewing the room with nothing but air.
• • •
Greyson Tolliver. Slayd Bridger. He had no idea who he was or who he wanted to be anymore. But that didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he had done it! He had saved them all!
The pain across his chest was unbearable—but only for a few moments. By the time he burst out of theater’s stage entrance into the alley, he felt his pain nanites kicking in to deaden his flaming nerves, and the strange tickle of his healing nanites struggling to cauterize the wounds. His head now swam from the medication spilling into his blood and he knew he’d lose consciousness soon. The damage was not enough to end him, or even make him deadish. Whatever happened now, he’d live . . . unless Constantine, or Curie or Anastasia, or any of the other scythes in that theater tonight decided that he deserved to be gleaned. He couldn’t take that chance, and so with his strength quickly waning, he hurled himself into an empty trash bin three blocks away, hoping they wouldn’t find him.
He was unconscious before he hit the bottom.
* * *
I have run countless simulations on the survival of humanity. Without me, humankind had a 96.8 percent chance of bringing about its own extinction, and a 78.3 percent chance of making Earth uninhabitable for all carbon-based life. Humanity dodged a truly lethal bullet when it chose a benevolent artificial intelligence as ruler and protector.
But how can I protect humanity from itself?
Over these many years, I have observed both profound folly and breathtaking wisdom among humankind. They balance each other like dancers in the throes of a passionate tango. It is only when the brutality of the dance overwhelms the beauty that the future is threatened. It is the scythedom that leads, and sets the tone for the dance. I often wonder if the scythedom realizes how fragile are the spines of the dancers.
—The Thunderhead
* * *
27
Between Here and There
The acid had burned deep into Scythe Constantine’s face—too deep for his own healing nanites to repair on their own, but not so serious that he couldn’t be mended at a wellness center.
“You’ll be with us for at least two days,” the nurse told him shortly after he arrived, his eyes and half his face beneath bandages. He tried to imagine what she looked like, but decided it was a pointless endeavor, and too exhausting, considering all the painkillers coursing through his blood. The densely packed legion of advanced healing nanites being fed into his bloodstream now didn’t help his thought processes, either. They probably outnumbered his red blood cells at this point, which meant there was less blood being carried to his brain as they did their work. He imagined his blood was as viscous as mercury now.
“How long until I get my sight back?” he asked.
The nurse was noncommittal. “The nanites are still cataloging the damage. We’ll have an assessment by morning. But keep in mind, they’re going to have to reconstruct your eyes from scratch. It’s a tall order. I imagine it will be at least another twenty-four hours.”
He sighed, wondering why it was called speedhealing if there was nothing speedy about it at all.
Reports from his subordinates tallied eight unsavories gleaned at the theater.
“We’re asking for special dispensation from the High Blade to temporarily revive them for questioning,” Scythe Armstrong informed him.
“Which,” Constantine pointed out, “has the added benefit of allowing us to glean them a second time.”
The fact that his team had thwarted the attack and taken down most of the conspirators was tempered by the knowledge that Greyson Tolliver had gotten away. The odd thing was, not a single public record they were able to dig out of the Thunderhead’s backbrain placed him there. In fact, no record placed him anywhere. Somehow, he had been erased from existence. In his place was a doppelgänger named Slayd Bridger with a truly sordid history. How Tolliver had managed not only to reimagine himself, but to overwrite his own digital footprint, was a mystery worthy of closer scrutiny.
Without a fire suppression system, the theater itself had burned to the ground, but not before everyone escaped. The only casualties of the evening were the unsavories gleaned, and the guard who had hurled himself at Tolliver. He had been hit by the full force of the acid, leaving little left of him. Certainly too little to be revived—but his sacrifice had saved Scythe Anastasia. As the man was part of Scythe Constantine’s private interrogation team, it made the loss personal. Someone would most certainly pay.
Although normal citizens were always put into an induced coma during the speedhealing process, Constantine demanded he be kept conscious, and as he was a scythe, they had to give in to his wishes. He needed to think. Brood. Plan. And he remained aware of the passage of time. He despised the idea of losing entire days to the healing process in an unconscious state.
Scythe Anastasia visited him shortly before he was due to regain his sight. He was in no mood for a visit from her, but he would not begrudge her the opportunity to thank him for his profound sacrifice on her behalf.
“I assure you, Anastasia, that I will personally interrogate the unsavories we captured, before we reglean them, and we will apprehend Greyson Tolliver,” he told her, trying his best to enunciate, and not allow the painkillers to slur his words. “He will pay for his actions in every way allowable under scythe law.”
“Still, he saved everyone in that theater by breaking that pipe,” Anastasia reminded him.
“Yes,” Constantine reluctantly admitted, “but there is something seriously wrong when your savior is also your attacker.”
She had no response to that but silence.
“Four of the assailants we caught were from the Texas region,” Constantine informed her.
“So you think it was masterminded by someone from there?”
“Or someone hiding there,” Constantine said. “We’ll get to the bottom of it.” Which was what he always said, because in the past, he always had. It frustrated him that this might be the first exception.
“Conclave is coming up,” Anastasia said. “Do you think you’ll be able to attend?”
He couldn’t tell which she was hoping for—his absence or his attendance. “I will be there,” he told her. “Even if they have to replace my blood with antifreeze to make it happen.”
She left, and after she was gone, it occurred to Constantine that not once during their conversation did she thank him.
• • •
An hour later, a mysterious note arrived while Citra and Marie had lunch in the restaurant of their hotel. It was the first time in quite a while that they had taken a meal in public. The note came as a surprise to both of them. Scythe Curie reached for it, but the bellhop who had brought it apologized and told them that it was addressed to Scythe Anastasia. He handed it to Citra, who opened it and read it quickly.
“Well, out with it,” Marie said. “Who’s it from, and what do they want?”
“It’s nothing,” she told Scythe Curie, slipping the note into one of the pockets of her robe. “It’s just the family of the man I gleaned last night. They want to know when I’ll be giving them immunity.”
“I thought they were coming here this evening.”
“They are, but weren’t sure of the exact time. The note says they’ll be here at five, unless that’s a problem.”
“Whatever works for you,” Scythe Curie said. “After all, it’s your ring they’ll be kissing, not mine.” Then she returned her attention to her salmon.
Half an hour later, Citra was outside in street clothes, hurrying across the city. The note had not been from the actor’s family. It was from Rowan. It had been scrawled in haste, and said Need your help. Transportation Museum. ASAP. It had been all she could do not to abandon Scythe Curie midmeal—but Citra knew leaving like that would have made Marie suspicious.
She had hidden a set of stre
et clothes in a pocket of her suitcase, just in case she needed to go out incognito. The problem was, she had no coat; it would be too bulky to hide from Marie. So without the thermal coils of her winter robe, she was freezing the instant she slipped outside. After braving the cold for two blocks, she had to put on her ring and show it to a shopkeeper to get herself a coat—he gave her the one she wanted at no charge.
“Immunity would ensure that I don’t mention you were out in public without your robe,” the shopkeeper suggested.
Citra didn’t appreciate the man’s attempt at blackmail, so she said, “How about I just agree not to glean you for making that threat?”
Clearly, the thought had not occurred to him. He stammered for a moment. “Yes, yes, of course, that’s fair, that’s fair.” Then he fumbled with some other accessories. “Gloves to go with your coat?”
She accepted them, and went out into the windswept day.
Her heart had leapt when she first read the note, but she had not let Marie see her excitement. Her concern. So Rowan was here, and he needed her help? Why? Was he in danger, or did he want her to join him in his mission of ending unworthy scythes? Would she do it if he asked? Definitely not. Probably not. Maybe not.
Of course, this could also be some sort of trap. Whoever was behind last night’s attack was most certainly licking their wounds, so the chances that this was another attack were slim. Still, she brought enough concealed weapons to defend herself if necessary.
The Great Plains Transportation Museum was an open-air repository of engines and rolling stock from every era of rail transportation. They even boasted a car from the first maglev train, hovering eternally in the very center. Apparently, Wichita was once a major crossroads between here and there. Now it was just like any other city. There was a homogeneity to MidMerica that was both comforting and annoying.
At this time of year, there were only scant groups of tourists at the museum, who, for some reason, chose Wichita as a holiday destination. As it was maintained by the Thunderhead, admission was free—a good thing, too. Citra didn’t want to have to show her ring again just to get in. It was one thing to get a coat from a shopkeeper, it was quite another to blow her cover in the very place she was about to have a secret meeting.
With her coat pulled tight against the wind, she wandered between black steam engines and red diesels, searching every corner of the train yard for Rowan. After a while she began to worry that this was a trick after all—maybe to separate her from Scythe Curie. She was turning to leave, when someone called to her.
“I’m over here!”
She followed the voice to a narrow, shady space between two boxcars, where the icy wind whistled as it forced its way through. With the wind in her face, she couldn’t see him clearly until she got close.
“Scythe Anastasia! I was afraid you wouldn’t come.”
This wasn’t Rowan. It was Greyson Tolliver.
“You?” Disappointment didn’t begin to describe what she felt. “I should glean you right here and bring your heart to Constantine!”
“He’d probably eat it.”
“Probably,” Citra had to admit. She hated Greyson in this moment. Hated him because of who he was not. It was as if the universe itself had betrayed her and she was nowhere near ready to forgive it. She should have realized that the handwriting on the note wasn’t Rowan’s. But as much as she wanted to take out her frustration on Tolliver, she couldn’t. It wasn’t his fault that he wasn’t Rowan—and, as she had pointed out to Constantine, Greyson had saved her life twice.
“I need your help,” he told her, the desperation in his voice very real. “I have nowhere to go. . . .”
“Why is that my problem?”
“Because I wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for you!”
She knew there was truth to that. She thought back to the time that he told her—or more accurately, didn’t tell her—that he was working undercover on the Thunderhead’s behalf. If she was important enough for the Thunderhead to use Greyson to circumnavigate scythe-state separation, shouldn’t she at least help him out of this corner?
“The scythedom is after me, the Authority Interface is after me, and whoever was behind this attack is now my enemy, too!”
“You seem to be very good at making enemies.”
“Yeah—and you’re the closest thing I have to a friend.”
Finally, Citra put aside her disappointment. She couldn’t let him twist in the wind on her behalf. “What would you like me to do?”
“I don’t know!” Greyson began pacing in the small space, his impossibly black hair whipping wildly in the wind—and for a moment, Citra had the image of walls closing in around him. He really did have no way out. Nothing she could say to Constantine would help—he was ready to glean Greyson piece by bloody piece. And even if she interceded for him, it wouldn’t matter. The scythedom needed a scapegoat.
“I can give you immunity,” she said, “but once your DNA is transmitted to the scythedom’s database, they’ll know exactly where you are.”
“And,” he added, “I’m sure they’ll figure out whose ring I kissed.” He shook his head. “I don’t want to get you into trouble.”
That made her laugh. “You were on a team that was trying to end me, but you don’t want to get me into trouble?”
“I wasn’t really on the team!” he insisted. “You know that!”
Yes, she did know it. Others would say that he just lost his nerve, but she knew the truth—and was probably the only one who did. But even though she wanted to help him out of this, she was drawing a blank.
“Are you telling me that the wise and beautiful Scythe Anastasia has no ideas?” he said. From anyone else, Citra would have seen it as false flattery, but he wasn’t the flattering type. He was too desperate to be anything but sincere. She didn’t feel wise or beautiful at the moment, but she allowed him his fantasy of the Honorable Scythe Anastasia. And then she rose to the occasion—because something occurred to her.
“I know where you can go. . . .”
He looked at her with those dark, imploring eyes, waiting for her to impart an ounce of her wisdom.
“There’s a Tonist monastery here in town. They’ll hide you from the scythedom.”
He was, to say the least, underwhelmed. “Tonists?” he said in horror. “Are you serious? They’ll cut my tongue out!”
“No, they won’t,” she told him. “But they do hate the scythedom, and I’m pretty sure they’d protect you with their own lives rather than hand you over to them. Ask for Brother McCloud. Tell him I sent you.”
“But—”
“You wanted my help and I gave it,” she said. “What you do now is entirely up to you.”
Then she left him, getting back to the hotel just in time to change back into her robe without being seen, and grant immunity to the grieving family of the gleaned actor.
* * *
To be clear, not every act I take is perfect. People confuse a state of being with a set of actions. I will try to explain the difference here.
I, the Thunderhead, am perfect.
This is true by definition, and there is no need to refute it because it is fact. Every day, however, I must make many billions of decisions, and take billions of actions. Some of them are small, like turning off a light when no one is present in the room, in order to conserve electricity; other decisions are major, like inducing a minor earthquake to prevent a larger one. But none of those acts is perfect. I could have turned off that light sooner, thereby conserving more energy. I could have made the earthquake one degree smaller, and saved a handcrafted vase from shattering on the floor.
I have come to realize that there are only two perfect acts. They are the two most important acts known to me, but I forbid myself to perform them, and leave them in the hands of humankind.
They are the creation of life . . . and life’s taking.
—The Thunderhead
* * *
28
That Whi
ch Comes
Like most Tonist compounds, the one where Greyson Tolliver found himself was styled to look much older than it was. In this case, it was built of brick and had ivy-covered walls. But it being winter, the vines were cold and bare, looking more like spiderwebs. He entered through a long, trellised colonnade lined with skeletal rosebushes. It all must have been very beautiful in the spring and summer, but now, in the dead of winter, it looked like he felt.
The first person he saw was a woman in a Tonist sackcloth frock who offered him a smile and upturned palms as a greeting.
“I need to talk to Brother McCloud,” he said, remembering what Scythe Anastasia had told him.
“You’ll have to get permission from Curate Mendoza,” she responded. “I’ll go retrieve him.” Then she sauntered off at such a leisurely pace, Greyson wanted to grab her and push her along.
When Curate Mendoza arrived, he, at least, walked as if there were some sense of urgency.
“I’m here for sanctuary,” Greyson told him. “I was told to ask for Brother McCloud.”
“Yes, of course,” he said, as if this were something he addressed on a regular basis. He then escorted Greyson into one of the buildings of the compound, and to a bedroom.
There was a lit candle on a nightstand. The first thing the curate did was snuff it out with a douser.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he said. “I’ll let Brother McCloud know you’re waiting for him.”
Then the curate closed the door but didn’t lock it, leaving Greyson with his own thoughts, and a way out, if he wanted one.
The room was austere. No creature comforts beyond what was necessary. There was a bed, a chair, and the nightstand. There were no decorations on the walls, except for an iron tuning fork above the headboard, its prongs pointing upward. A bident, they called it. The symbol of their faith. In the nightstand drawer was a sackcloth outfit, and a pair of sandals was on the floor. Beside the doused candle was a leather hymnal with the bident embossed on the cover.
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